


Far Away Like a Radio

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, lacking any other options, they make another circle of holy fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far Away Like a Radio

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers past 'Everybody Hates Hitler'.
> 
> Title from the song by Colin James.

In the end, lacking any other options, they make another circle of holy fire.

"This isn't like before, Cas, okay?" Dean says, stressing it, standing close enough to the curved line of flames that he can feel his exposed skin tighten and sting. "It's not. We're worried about you."

Cas looks small, standing there in the orange glow at the centre of the bunker's floor, caught. He looks betrayed--of course he does; they've betrayed him, trapping him like this again when neither of them think _he's_ the problem this time--but mostly he just looks plainly, honestly confused. "Why?"

"Why?" Dean's voice is too sharp, too hard; it rings back a bit from the walls. But Cas's expression is one of total incomprehension, and Dean _knows_ that's not right. "How about Heaven, huh? You told me--you said--" He falters. He hasn't told Sam about that conversation, and he can see Sam's curious glance in his periphery. "--and then you went and airlifted Alfie's body back home like it was nothing. And then we didn't hear from you for _weeks_!"

"I've been busy. I told you, Dean, I've been helping people." Cas's hands rise and spread a little at his sides: presenting himself for inspection, displaying his openness, making a small, earnest show of _what more do you want?_ "There was a child bitten by a feral cat in Lucknow, and a man suffering severe anaphylaxis in Kelowna, and a woman trapped by a landslide in the Peruvian interior--"

"That's great, Cas," Sam cuts in, gentle and genuine. Over the years, Dean's heard him talk countless civilians down from terror and out of denial in that same tone of voice. "It's really great that you're saving so many lives. But that's not all of it, is it? There's something else going on."

A small furrow creases Cas's brow. "There are so many in need. So many in pain, and since my rescue from Purgatory, I've been free to help--"

"Your rescue?"

Cas blinks. "What?"

It's as if what Dean said--what Dean _repeated_ \--was completely unintelligible. Deliberately, he spells it out: "You just said you were rescued from Purgatory."

"I misspoke. I escaped."

"Oh, you know you escaped now? 'Cause I thought you didn't remember how you got out."

"I don't. I remember nothing about--"

"The rescue."

"Yes." The furrow in Cas's brow deepens. "No. I--"

"Who rescued you, Cas?"

"I don't--"

"Who rescued you?"

"I--Dean--"

_"Who rescued you, Cas?"_

"Certainly not you!"

It's not an accusation; despite his words, there's no blame in Cas's eyes. Just panic, bewildered and helpless. Dean forcibly ignores his own jumbled memories of failure and shame, and takes a long breath before agreeing steadily, "No. It wasn't me. Who was it?"

Cas stares at them across the flames. His mouth moves wordlessly.

"Dean," Sam breathes, a low warning.

Dean sees it, too. Carefully, carefully, keeping an iron lid on his swelling fear and anger and desperation, he asks, "Cas. Why is your eye bleeding?"

Cas blinks once, slowly, dazed. Not expressionless; disconnected. For a long beat, Dean thinks he's shut down like he did over Alfie's body, thinks he's not going to answer, thinks maybe he _can't_. But then, as if dredging up numb words from beneath a vast weight, Cas says, "There was...an instrument. Here." He raises one hand to point at the arch of his eye socket, and that's slow too, like his body's something vacant and adrift. And maybe it is, mostly; maybe that's what's been going on every time he's taken a few seconds too long to contribute to a conversation, every time he's blinked at easy questions like he wasn't sure exactly what they were asking, every time he's stammered over perfectly ordinary words at the start of his sentences. Maybe whoever's messing with him has been beaming him up out of his vessel and leaving it on automatic while they do whatever the fuck they've been doing to him.

Instruments. Jesus.

"Dean." Cas's voice cracks on his name. It's an obvious struggle for him to meet Dean's eyes, to focus on him; when he does, finally, it's with a distant kind of devastation. Shell-shock. "How much holy oil do you have?"

Dean's pulse pounds cold. Beside him, Sam pulls in a sharp breath.

Inside the circle, thin rivulets of blood wend their way down Cas's cheeks, glistening in the light of the fire angels can't cross.


End file.
